Air and Water

And the hours fill my hands,
clear and quiet and burdensome,
the weight, the moving mass of them -
liquid-weighted knuckles on the ground,
cupped palms sodden with it,
arms dragged down and a head
clouded in the wide-blown-blue -
sunstruck eyes, streaming hair,
nose poised to the clean, fresh air,
mouth open at the beauty singing there,
the hectic blow.

And in-between
purple pumping, the bleeding, the bleeding-in,
the rich heartflow smooth and red
drinking oxygen, mineral wealth, all cargo.

What with the weight in the hands,
the head in the clouds,
the red chain-linking tributaries,
I don't know if I am above, below,
or centred on 
a million gates scratched in the wall,
load-bearing days all ticked
and scaffolded, 
I concentrate on chalk-marked stone
and drink from hands the rain rains on
and breathe the air the second sucked
and gone.

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